Not lost but not yet found
by Cortenza
Summary: Kidnapped and tortured. Found but with no memory of who he is or what happened to him. Will he ever find his way back home? Contains violence & Language. Rating may go up.
1. Chapter 1

He truly wasn't sure if he was alive, or stuck in some horrible nightmare that wouldn't end

**A/N: **I am still not quite sure if I should post this story at all, but after editing the first chapter for the fourth time, I have decided that I will let you readers decide if it should continue or not.

I did enjoy letting my imagination run wild, after all.

So let me know if I should continue or not.

Enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **The characters in this story that you do not recognize belong to me. Everything else belongs to JK Rowling.

--

He truly wasn't sure if he was alive, or stuck in some horrible nightmare that wouldn't end. And he wasn't sure, if he wanted to find out.

The pain felt real, but then again, doesn't everything feel real even in dreams?

There were days when he wasn't sure of whom he was. Other days he just wanted to die. And then there were those good days, when he didn't feel anything at all.  
Didn't think. Just stared out into nothing with half lidded eyes, his muscles twitching involuntarily now and then, from the aftereffects from countless crucius.

He had once been a...well...Not a happy boy. But then, he had never been a sad or angry boy either.

His parents were brutally murdered three months after his first birthday.

Just a day after he was left at the doorstep to his aunt's house.

His aunt, though a very devoted mother, could not stand the sight of her nephew. He was a constant reminder of what she could never have. Of a world to where she would never belong.

So, to punish him for...well...Being, she locked him into a cupboard. A tiny little cupboard, under the stairs. For the first few days, he had cried. A heart wrenching cry for his mother. His father. He didn't understand. Why didn't anybody come to change his wet nappies? To feed him? To hug him? Where was the light?

On the seventh night, he didn't cry. He slept silently instead, now knowing that no matter how much he screamed to be lift up. To be held. Nobody would come for him. He was alone.

That following morning, his cupboard was flooded with light, and he was not-so-gently grabbed by his aunt, that proceeded to bathe him, change his nappies, and feed him with food from a baby-food jar that just recently went out of date.  
The following years, he would grow used to his aunt and her family.

His aunt, who could have been pretty if she had eaten more, was a constantly irritated woman with no tolerance for imagination what so ever.  
Her hair was blonde, always up in a tight bun on her head, and she had a sour look on her face, like if she was sucking on a lemon.

Her bluish-green eyes were always somewhat dull, and her fingers were long and bony.  
The boy remembered those fingers well, since she always pinched his ears, legs or arms when he was a bother. And he was always a bother.

Her favorite hobby it seemed was to give the boy chores, and as he was working, she would stand next to him and tell him that he was unwanted, and what a little freak he was.

Her husband did look nothing like his wife.

He was a big, overweight man, with a head of brown hair, and a big moustache under his nose that crumbs constantly got stuck in when the man ate biscuits or bread. He worked at a drilling company, called 'Grunnings', and every day at dinner he was always boasting about the people he had fired. Oh, he loved firing people.

The man, who had brown, beady eyes, liked to give the boy a shove or so when he got in his way.  
If he still was a bother, the man would slap him around a bit, and talk about how worthless the boys' parents had been.

The boy also had a cousin.

And this cousin was a horrible little boy, who would go out of his way to make every child's life unhappy.

He was blonde, with watery blue eyes, and a very pink, round face. He usually could be seen, waddling around, and eating candy, as he tried to scare the other little kids on the street.

For he, obese and constantly eating, was bigger than them.

"That's my boy, Dudley. You're going to be a fine young man one day." His father used to say, and wipe a tear from his eye, as he saw his son demand another piece of cake. "A fine man indeed. You were born a businessman, just like me."

The boy, who had been thrown into the cupboard the first time he arrived to Privet Drive number 4, learned to not be noticed.

He learned that he, although considered strange, was nothing special at all.

So when he was taught to cook for his family, move the lawn, paint the fence, weed the garden and to clean the house, he tried to do his best. Because he wanted to be loved, like his cousin. He wanted to do well.  
To be a good boy.

He learned to read by the age of four, to cook fancy dinners by the age of five, and how to pay for groceries by the age of six, but he was always looked upon as if he had done everything wrong. That he was no good.

And he was always a very lonely boy. At school, he had no friends, because his cousin told everybody that he was weird. That he was a freak.

And as long as the boy could remember, strange things had happened around him.  
Things appearing out of thin air, snakes talking to him, and teachers' hair turning blue.

Yes, he was a very strange boy. But strange doesn't always mean bad.

When he turned eleven, the boy was introduced to the world of magic.  
He had been invited to a boarding school, in Scotland, where other children, _just like him_, learned to control their magic.

He was a wizard.  
At first, he had thought it impossible.  
He, a wizard?

And when he found out, that he was also famous in the wizarding world, he had shaken his head.

"But that's _impossible_." He had told the giant man that had come to collect him. "I'm _Harry_. _Just Harry_."

And even though little Harry loved this magical world, filled with strange creatures, wands and his first real friends, he was in constant danger.  
Bad people were after him. Death eaters and their dark lord. Voldemort.

He had managed to survive every encounter with the bad wizards and witches, but a year ago, he had not been able to escape.

He had been tied up in a cellar, somewhere, and tortured until he no longer was sure of what was real and what was not.  
Until he could not remember his own name. Until Harry...Just Harry, didn't know who this _Harry _was anymore. He didn't even remember that he was fourteen, and the only hope that the wizarding world had.

**_But something was wrong._**

Green eyes, once bright and almost glowing, now dull from hunger and pain, blinked.

The right eye was brighter than the other, a paler green. He had been hit with some spell, and even though it was supposed to gorge his eyes out, the spell had been so weak; it had only blinded this eye.

He turned his eyes up. Up. And _there_. _There was light_. He squinted. It hurt. He wasn't used to it. But. There was never light. _Not here.__  
_  
And light must mean...Must mean no pain.

And so, thinking that it was death that finally had come to claim him, he shakily raised himself up on his hands and knees. He was feeling sick just by moving. As soon as his captures has realized that he was too weak to even stand and barely move, they had left him on the floor. No shackles anymore. No binding spells. A mistake on their side. They had forgotten how strong magic this boy held within him.

So the boy, slowly making his way to his feet, stared at the light, and started to make his way towards it.  
His painfully thin arms reached out for it, and his bony hands hit something...a...a...what was it called again?  
Some sort of opening.  
_He pushed._

A cool breeze hit his face, and he took a ragged breath.  
There, up there in the dark blue, was a giant white orb, smiling down at him.  
There were odd shapes all around him. Trees?  
His lips twisted up into a small smile.  
"Light."

He was stumbling over branches. He had to get away.  
Had to. He didn't know why, but something in him kept screaming at him to run. Away from where he came from.

His feet were bleeding, but he couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel the stones digging into his feet, or the branches clawing at his bare arms.  
He only knew that he had to get away.  
_It was the only way he was to survive.__  
_  
Suddenly, he saw more light on his left, just as he realized that his feet now were on something smooth. Something with no dirt and no trees.

He turned to the light.  
Two yellowish orbs coming towards him.

He took a small step back, as he heard a woman scream.  
"Mama?"

Then it all turned black.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mr. and Mrs. Ignesco?"

Davis grunted, and opened his blue eyes, and blinked owlishly for a second, before focusing on the short man in scrubs standing before him.

Casting his wife a glance, he noticed that she was deeply asleep, her head resting on his shoulder.

Davis Ignesco was a tall man in his late twenties, with a strong jaw, muscled body and short brown hair with long bangs that constantly fell into his eyes. Dressed in a black leatherjacket, a black T-shirt and ripped jeans, he more than often was thought dangerous.

But he was kind, fair and even though he wasn't much for laughing, he made up for it by smiling most of the time and having a small obsession to watch Oprah while eating Rocky Road ice cream.

"Yes? How is he?"

The doctor didn't answer, just beckoned for Davis to follow him. After having made sure that his wife was comfortable, he quickly followed the man into an office, cluttered with paper and doctor stuff that Davis would never understand.

"Mr. Ignesco. As you can understand, I have to make sure that you are not in any way, related to any of the injuries we found on the boy you brought in."

"First of all, my name is Davis. Second of all; no, I am not. We found him standing naked in the middle of the road. We almost _hit _him for god's sake! And he…"

Davis took a deep breath. How could he not be upset? Just hours earlier, he had been on his way home from a concert, together with his wife, when the boy had appeared in the middle of the road. It was as if it was some horrible horror movie coming to life.

The doctor grabbed a box of tissues, but Davis shook his hand.

"No…No, I'm fine…I'm just…" He took another deep breath, and leaned back in the chair. "How bad is it? He'll live, won't he?" His blue eyes screamed for the doctor to answer positive.

The boy could not die. His wife had wrapped the boy in a blanket, and held his head in her lap the whole way to the hospital. She had cried, as she had used some tissues and water, to wipe away dirt, only to discover bruises and scars marring that sickly pale skin.

"And…don't talk all this _doctor_ stuff. I won't understand a word of what you're saying if you do."

"To tell you the truth, it's the worst case we've seen. Some of the injuries are hard to explain. The last person that came in with injuries _remotely_ like his…the man didn't survive the night."

"Just…_tell me_."

"There are third degree burn marks from his hipbone, and up to the right side of his face. It means that the skin is dead, and he won't be able to feel anything. It's as if a blow torch or something has been held to him. There has been no gasoline involved; otherwise the injuries would be much worse. His right ear looks undamaged and the burns that reach his face stops just around the area of his eyebrow. His right eye was not damaged by fire, it seems as if the optic nerve was damaged by something else, but we can not determine what. He'll be blind on that eye. There are…"

Here the doctor paused, and looked away for a few seconds, before shuddering. "There are _welts_…Wounds after a whip all over his back. I've only seen such marks in history books, from the time when black people were slaves."

Davis closed his eyes, and choked back a sob. The boy…He had looked to be barely in his teens. _A child_. Who could hurt a child in such a way?

"All of his fingers and toes have the signs of having been bent back until they've snapped, and some of his fingernails and toenails have been ripped out, together with fourteen of his teeth. There must have been some kind of tong involved. His nose has been broken several times, and he has scars all over his neck and throat after…"

The doctor who had been sitting down in a chair behind the desk, stood up and walked over to the window, looking out over one of the playgrounds outside.

"…after a knife. " The doctor's voice was slightly choked by now. "His ribs, arms, legs, toes and collar bones have all been broken several times, and his jaw have signs of having been dislocated multiplied times. His skull had been cracked, but there are no signs of brain damage. We had to put in a metal plate though. His knee caps have been crushed, his left thigh bone broken at least twice, and his pelvis has a few cracks. There is….signs…of forced entry both orally and…"

"_He was raped_?"

"Several times. He's also dangerously malnourished, but I would guess that he's about...Thirteen years old at most."

Davis looked at his hands that were shaking. How could anybody…hurt a child? He couldn't understand it. What kind of _**sick**_ bastard…

"There's one more thing…"

His head snapped up, and he caught the eyes of the doctor that had been studying him.

"There are…marks on his wrists and ankles…from shackles."

Wilona Ignesco was by no means a tall woman. Standing at the height of 5'3, she did not have an intimidating figure, but lord knows that she could make the toughest biker man take one or two steps back.

She was slim, with delicate features, and slightly big ears that were pierced several times. A piercing also decorated her left nose wing, and her dark brown hair, cut into a bob cut, had two bright purple streaks in it.

She was curled up in a chair, a quilt thrown over her legs, and a book in her lap, when she heard the door creak open.

Looking up, her violet eyes caught her husbands form, as he slowly made his way into the room, trying to balance coffee, candy and food on a tray. He stumbled slightly, and bit his lip in concentration, as he made his way over to her, and put the tray down on a small table nearby.

"Any signs of…"

"No…He's still asleep." She glanced at the body, which lied motionless in the bed next to her. The boy that they had saved only six weeks ago had yet to wake up. He had been stable enough for surgeries to take place, to re break his bones and put them right and to restore his nose, and the doctors had all been amazed by his quick healing.

He was covered in bandages now, moving slightly which his eyes shut tight, a groan escaping him.

Wilona gasped, and jumped to her feet.

"_Davis_!" She hissed, pressing a button to call a nurse.

Her husband rushed over to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder, as they watched the boy slowly open his eyes.

The boy flinched, a whimper escaping him, as he caught sight of them with his good, brilliant green eye. The other one which must once had been the exact same, brilliant shade, was now a misty green, reminding them of a frosted windowpane on a cold winter morning.

"Shush…It's okay, little one. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you." Davis said silently, giving the boy a small smile. "You're at a hospital. You're going to be okay."

The boy blinked at him, and whimpered again, but relaxed none the less, a look of pain twisting his face into a grimace.

"You've had some surgeries, and you'll have some more waiting in the future, but for now, just let the nurse check you over." Wilona carefully stroked the boy's cheek, as two nurses walked in to the room, a doctor following them.

After a few minutes, when the nurses had checked over the boy and talked silently to the doctor before they left, the doctor gave the boy a soft smile.

"Son, can you tell me your name?"

The boy stared back at him, his face covered in bandages and pale skin marred with fading bruises and recently healed up scars…

"Name?"

* * *

"Sirius…Come on. You have to come out." Said a voice from the other side of the door.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn shut and the air was thick.

"**Leave me alone**!" Snarled the skinny, black haired man that was sitting on the bed. He was unshaved, his eyes red rimmed from crying, and in his shaking hands, he held a photo of a black-haired, green eyed boy, who was laughing as he shot through the air on a broom.

Colin Creevey had taken the picture at one of Harry's Quidditch games, and now that Harry was missing, Colin had decided to hand the picture over to Hermione and Ron, being his friends and all.

Hermione, knowing that Sirius had close to no pictures of his godson, had sent it as soon had she had had the opportunity.

And for that, Sirius was grateful.

But he had not managed to leave the bedroom since Bellatrix's trial, five weeks after Harry's disappearance.

The which had laughed when asked about Harry, and told them that 'the little ickle baby Potter was as good as dead.'

He himself had not been on the trial, still being on the run, but Remus had told him what had happened, and since then Sirius had felt nothing but rage and sorrow.

He could still remember Harry, looking up at him as they stood just outside the whomping willow, and he had asked the raven haired child if he wanted to come and live with him.

Those green eyes had looked up at him, lips slightly parted in surprise, as if he had just handed him the world.

The door creaked, as it opened, and seconds later, the bed that Sirius sat on dipped down, as another weight settled on the old, but still perfectly comfortable mattress.

A hand sneaked around his shoulders, and Sirius let himself be pulled into a one-sided hug.

"He _can't_ be dead, Moony. I just _know_ that he's alive. _I just know it_!"

"I agree, Padfoot. I know that Harry would never give up. But…It's been a year and…" _the death eaters have never had much patience_.

The words hung unsaid in the air between the two men.

And after killing the dark lord. Who knows what punishment they would bring upon their Harry…Their Pronglet.


End file.
